Poems by K. Stan Tinos

The nymph once danced in golden air,
A whirl that swept through autumn's glade;
She wove her joy with fleeting care,
Through fern-lit haze and twilight shade.
The meadow sighed--its hush laid bare,
By hymns she spun in soft ballet.

In every swirl, both shade and sun
Entwined above with trembling grace;
Her mirth and grief became as one,
A dream no time could yet erase.
She danced of springs not yet begun--
I watched, spellbound, her fleeting trace.

The heart makes gold from tender rain,
From petals kissed by dawn's embrace;
Now she glides through the woods again,
Her presence warms the misted place--
Her dance unbinds each buried chain;
Today, I tread where echoes race.

And--even our brightest hours gleam
With ghosts of bliss too bright to last.
Her dance, now but a fading dream,
Resounds across the haunted past.
Her spirit bends--a willow tree--
Weaving new life where brooklight casts.

In every twirl, the moon and sun
Entwined above in trembling skies.
All mirth and grief were forged as one;
All ache dissolved in sweet disguise.
She danced of love not yet begun--
And I, spellbound, traced her rise.

The heart spins gold from balmy rain
And blooms in May's profuse array.
Now she glides through the woods again,
Her celestial form ignites the day--
Her dance unbinds each buried chain;
Today, I weep where shadows sway.

Yet still--the brightest hours gleam
With ghosts of bliss too bright to last.
Her dance, now but a fading dream,
Becomes an echo from a haunted past.
Her spirit bends--a willow tree--
Weaving new life where brooklight streams.

I wander lonely where the trees
Stand tall with hearts of stone; their shadows creep
Across the dampened earth. My weary knees
Bear weight of years, each step etches deep
Swoons upon the grass, through twilight halls,
Like cathedral aisles, I move without reprieve.
The mockingbird from barren branches calls,
While skylarks sing their hymn to darkened skies.
Though spring returns, hope's voice to silence falls;
A hollow pleading wind that moans and dies.
Where summer light once drenched the meadow's face,
Now poppies weep, and leafless forests sigh.
My voice, a shattered chalice, spills its grace
Of bitter prayers the wind will never hear.
"O lovers lost at mercy's gate,
O robin, sing! Hope, persevere!"
I call, yet the hollowness won't abate.
No solace warms from winter's hearth; its chill,
A deceptive flicker, bewails the blighted ground,
The sterile dream-seeds in the frozen field.
Fate, by what bleak star? What forfeit has been found?
What invisible chain holds this soul bound?
What potion, oath, what storm that cast its die?
No whisper of forgiveness stirs this stagnant pond.
No gentle breezes stir the unyielding sky;
Only these arms that, empty, grasp the air,
Embracing shades that only memory claimed,
The ghost of warmth, the form once cherished there,
A touch now ash... irreparably maimed.